Impulse
by Pilla Jeffrey
Summary: Juliet closed the door, breathless. Her head pounded—she could almost feel her body light on fire. Her lips were cold. She had just kissed Mark, her husband’s best friend, and her lips were cold.


TITLE: Impulse  
AUTHOR: Pilla Jeffrey  
CATEGORY: Angst, Drama, Missing Scene/Epilogue, Thoughts, Romance  
PAIRING: Juliet/Peter, Juliet/Mark  
SPOILERS: Hopefully you've seen the movie…  
RATING: PG  
CONTENT WARNINGS: none of any particular note  
SUMMARY: Juliet closed the door, breathless. Her head pounded—she could almost feel her body light on fire. Her lips were cold. She had just kissed Mark, her husband's best friend, and her lips were cold.  
STATUS: Complete  
ARCHIVE: anywhere else, ask.  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Love Actually_. Or Colin Firth. And I will rue the day until I do.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm 99.9 percentsure that Juliet would not cheat on Peter. I'm 99.9 percent sure that Mark was clouded by love, and idealized Juliet, in his proclamation, especially since the previous scenes were marked with "we don't get along, we don't talk, we don't hang out" dialogue. In other words, I deal with temptation, not seduction, in this ficlet.

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**Impulse**

Juliet closed the door, breathless. Her head pounded—she could almost feel her body light on fire. Her lips were cold. She had just kissed Mark, her husband's best friend, and her lips were cold.

She had always admired Mark. His art—while not her cup of tea—was certainly inventive and avant-garde. He was positively brilliant. And it had hurt her when he never talked to her, never kept eye contact longer than necessary. She was sure he hated her.

How wrong she was. In retrospect, she felt like a fool. His tongue, so easily found in Peter's company, was twisted not with hate but with a hesitant but resilient crush in front of her. His furtive glances were not of an admonishing best friend, but of a lovelorn school boy! How could she have been so stupid? And, more importantly, how could Peter have missed the signs as obliviously as she had?

She had met Peter two years previous. They were introduced at a party. She instantly took a liking to him. He was solid, charming, and funny as hell. His smile lit up her soul. If she had had her druthers, she would have taken him to the nearest church and married him on the spot. But Peter was more sensible than she. He thought things through. If Juliet suffered from anything, it was impulsiveness.

Peter insisted that Juliet meet those who were close to him. His family, his friends. That meant Mark. Mark's blessing was so important to Peter that Peter planned a night of it. He made dinner and went through half of his closet before he decided what to wear. Then he made Juliet change twice before she looked perfect for Mark. Juliet had laughed it off at the time. "He'll love me, darling," she promised.

Of course, she hadn't wanted him to love her so much. Just like her. So that the three of them could be friends. So Peter would finally just propose to her and make her an honest woman.

That night, she was a pleasant hostess, but Mark would hardly talk to her. From that moment and this, they had most likely seen each other no more than a few times, and each time was riddled with uncomfortable small talk. When the blessing was asked for, it was given under the breath, with no enthusiasm or support.

Which did, then, beg the question. How could Mark be so in love with her when he hardly knew her? They had never talked in real seriousness. He claimed her to be "perfect," yet he didn't see her flaws the way Peter had. He didn't see the unkempt bedroom and quietly tidy it up for her when she was stressed. He didn't hear her snore like an ogre and hold her the entire night anyway. He didn't taste her failed attempts at London broil—which, ironically, she could not make despite living in London her whole life—and comfort her with his own handiwork of apple pie ala mode. But, despite all this, Peter had never called her perfect before. And the idea of perfect was entrancing.

She felt silly that she was even entertaining the idea of being with Mark. She had never given him a second glance until now. There was nothing extraordinary between them. Before ten seconds ago, all that existed between them was awkward silence.

Why was she so stupidly impulsive? Just because an attractive man declares his love for you doesn't mean you forget your marriage vows. You don't kiss men for romancing you out of your husband's arms. She was an idiot.

Her cold lips still exuded icy webs of heat. She had kissed him because he had deserved a kiss. She was flattered by his interest, charmed by his posters and carol singers tactic. But, she realized, her head resting on the inside frame of her front door, there was no love there. Peter was love. Peter gave her what she needed in life: stability, joy, companionship. He countered her, softened her edges, gave her strength she never knew she had. She caused him to love like she had never loved before. Love, as it would be, was not clandestine kisses and devoted videos. Love was beyond that. Love, actually, was far more complicated than she would ever know. But she was certain of one thing: Peter was her soul. And Mark was a man she could never love as he loved her.

"Jules, come back here. Those singers aren't worth you catching pneumonia."

Oh, Peter. He could never know about Mark. "Coming!"

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